Let It Snow... (4 page)

That, she promised herself, was the
only
reason she wanted Philip Smith to stick around. It had nothing to do with his looks or his smooth voice, his sexy smile, or, oh, God, that incredible kiss.

“Are you okay?” asked Jeannie, who, like Claire, had been working like a madwoman during the late afternoon rush on Tuesday. Word was spreading about I Want Candy and people were constantly calling or coming in to place orders for specialized holiday gifts. Claire had gone through so much red and green icing, she wished she owned stock in Dixie Kane sugar. “You’re so quiet.”

“I’m fine, just thinking,” Claire admitted. “I’ve barely had time to do that lately.”

She’d looked at the clock during a lull that afternoon, and then three hours had passed in a blur of customers and phone calls. It was nearly six now, almost closing time and already dark out, if Midtown Manhattan could ever be called dark. Especially at this time of year, with all the twinkling lights and holiday decorations brightening even the gloomiest of nights.

“Hey, I finally met one of the new guys.”

“New guys?”

“One of the dudes from upstairs. Talk about a hottie.”

Claire immediately turned and busied herself filing some cleared order forms. “Oh?”

“He’s very gentlemanly, too. Treated me like I was all highbrow and stuff.”

Jeannie cracked her gum.
So highbrow
.

Claire had already talked to her about that habit, among others, but the young woman, while a hard worker, and smart, sometimes seemed to have the attention span of a three-year-old on Pixy Stix. Which was a good thing when it came to her energy level and enthusiasm, but a bad one about stuff like follow-through.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Is he single?” Jeannie asked.

Claire’s hand tightened on the top receipt and she found herself crumpling it, then forced her fingers to relax. “I have no idea.”

If not, he’s got some explaining to do about that kiss.

“I mean, I assume he is, since it’s just guys up there. Unless they’re... You don’t think they’re gay, do you?”

She barked a laugh. “Definitely not.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so. He’s supergentlemanly and all, but he didn’t set off my gaydar.”

What a joke. The man’s testosterone had testosterone. He was utterly male, masculine, confidently sexual, sensual and dangerous as hell to any woman who was the least bit susceptible to dark, mysterious strangers.

Which Claire wasn’t. Right?

“Oh, wow, there he is now,” Jeannie said, pointing toward the front of the shop.

Her heart lurching, Claire glanced at the door and saw a dark-haired man entering. But it wasn’t the one who made her pulse race and her underwear dampen.

“Hey, handsome,” said Jeannie with a simper.

“Good evening,” the stranger replied, his voice slightly accented, as Philip’s was. He was also similarly featured, and good-looking, but something about the way his chin and nose were held higher than absolutely necessary told Claire he wasn’t much like the man she’d met in her kitchen.

Still, better this man—who didn’t confuse and attract her—than his friend—who did.

Claire had just breathed a sigh of relief that she wasn’t going to come face-to-face with the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about when the door swung open again, sending in a blast of cold air and hot man.

Oh, boy, here we go
.

It was him. Big, strong, so unbelievably handsome, his hair windswept, his mouth curved in a smile that could stop traffic.

Panty-dampening time. Damn it all.

She turned and began shoveling chocolates molded into wreath, bell and Santa shapes from one tray to another. Then she put them back. Busy hands made a clean mind, or something like that. Actually, all her busy hands made was smeary chocolate.

“Hello, Claire,” he said, his voice smooth, silky. Close.

She spun around, to find him standing directly in front of her on the other side of the counter. “Uh, hi. How’s it going?”

“How is what going?”

She took a deep breath and tried again, wondering why this guy so easily flustered her. She’d never had trouble talking to a man before, but Philip left her unsure of herself and a little dizzy.

“How are you doing? Is everything all right upstairs?”

He nodded once. “All is well. Quite comfortable, though I did have to bring someone in to fix the heating apparatus.”

Oh, great. Something else she owed him for.

“Shelby is most happy that it is working now.”

“How could anyone survive this climate without it?” called Philip’s companion—Shelby?—obviously overhearing. Then he went back to flirting with Jeannie, whose attention appeared to have drifted from her original hottie to the inferno who was now speaking to Claire. She was staring back and forth between them like a kid in a...well, whatever.

“Sorry about that,” Claire said. “If you give me the receipt for the service call, I’ll pay you back.”

“No need, it was quite inexpensive. And I wasn’t truly bothered by the cold, though we do come from a warm climate,” Philip said, that purr in his voice making her think of all kinds of warm, sweaty things.

“Oh. Well, I can see how that would be different. It does get pretty cold here,” she mumbled.

Reduced to talking about the weather? Was this really the best she could do? Her late mother, once a noted femme fatale, would be rolling over in her grave.

Her mom had given up on Claire having any grace or feminine wiles by the time she was ten and hit five-eight. Claire had been all lanky build, clumsy feet, gangly arms and legs. Nothing like her petite, delicate mother, the ballerina, who’d been adored by men all over the country once upon a time. That was when Claire had finally been allowed to quit ballet lessons—which she’d loathed. She’d then focused on the one thing she’d loved to do since she’d been old enough to beg her grandmother to let her help in the kitchen: bake.

“And you? You are well?” her tenant asked.

“I’m fine.”

“There have been no...incidents?”

“Incidents?”

“No strangers bothering you?”

Realizing what he was talking about, she shook her head. “No. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about anymore.”

“Not even this Mr. Nutcracker?”

Claire chuckled under her breath as she remembered she’d thought this man could be a thug. She replied, “He’s not going to be a problem. Your rent money took care of that issue.”

“As long as your brother paid off the people he owed.”

Her jaw dropped.

“It truly wasn’t difficult to figure out what had happened, and why he would have rented your property without your permission,” Philip said, touching his index finger to her chin and pushing her mouth closed.

Claire swallowed hard, affected by that simple contact far more than she should have been. Shaking off the reaction—Mexican jumping beans in her stomach—she spoke: “He made a mistake. He’s young and stupid.”

“That much younger than you?”

No, not really. Only five years. But in terms of maturity? She and Freddy had been worlds apart. Claire had had to grow up quickly the first time she’d found their mother passed out from having taken too many pain pills. She’d called 911, then had to go alone to drag her father home from a nearby bar to tell him about it.

She’d been eleven.

“Maybe not in terms of years.”

“The real question is, did your brother use the money to pay back his creditors?”

“I’m sure he did.”

“Positive?”

“Of course.” Oh, she wished her voice held more conviction. Clearing her throat, she added, “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Maybe he wanted to use it to go away, escape his problems?”

She gulped. She hadn’t heard from Freddy, but assumed it was because he was too much of a chickenshit to face her. Not that he’d... He wouldn’t have... Oh, God, would he?

“Sorry.” Philip sounded sincere. “You hadn’t thought of that.”

“No, I hadn’t.”

“You haven’t spoken to him?”

“Not a word.”

“Then I’ll just continue keeping watch.”

“Keeping a... You’re watching me?”

“Watching over you,” he grudgingly admitted.

“
What?
I’m not some kid who needs protecting.”

“Yet protect you I will,” he replied, his tone silky, brooking no argument, the words an utter promise. He wasn’t asking her, he was telling her. The man was going to look out for her whether she liked it or not.

She was left speechless, simply did not know how to respond to that. Most men she knew barely remembered to hold a door open for a woman, and this one wanted to be her bodyguard because somebody
might
come around looking to collect her brother’s debt?

Her independent, free-minded, chicks-rule-and-guys-drool side wanted to tell him to take his protection and his alpha male bullshit and shove them.

But another part of her, maybe the part that went to bed every night thinking of the way this man had held her, kissed her, caught her when she’d nearly fallen on the floor, went all gooey and warm instead.

This would never do. Gooey and warm didn’t fit her personality or her life. She was tough and strong. She needed to focus on making her business succeed, on paying her bills, on keeping her brother on the straight-and-narrow.

Claire was the caretaker; she always had been. She wasn’t a weeping heroine, a fair maiden who had heroes wanting to look after her. She had no time for overprotective men or fantasies of Prince Charming.

But oh, did he make it tempting.

She cleared her throat and slapped a hand down on the glass countertop. “Is there something you want?”

Me, for instance?

His dark eyes glittered to near black, his mind probably going right where hers had the moment she’d said the words. She kicked herself for giving him that kind of opening.

At least you didn’t ask him if he liked your chocolate
.

“Yes. There is,” he told her.

She stepped back, pulled open the back door of the display case and bent toward it, waiting for him to point something out.

He didn’t. He just stood there, looking down at her.

“Do you want to sample something before you decide? I can offer you a free taste.”

Seriously? Again? Just tear open your sweater and offer a nipple. That would be about as subtle.

Claire had no idea why the man turned her into an idiot, but had to assume it was because she just hadn’t figured him out yet. Or because he kissed like he’d freaking invented kissing.

His lips twitched, as if he’d read her mind and knew she was mad at herself for offering these so-not-subtle innuendos.

“As much as I’d love to
taste
anything you might offer, I actually came here for another reason.”

Feeling heat burning her cheeks, she straightened and slid the case closed with a snap. “Oh?”

He nodded. “We’ve finished moving in, and I find I need to look around the city, to make sure I do want to attend the university here.”

“Which one?”

He hesitated. “The New York one.”

“New York University—NYU—is a great school.” The guy seemed too old for an undergrad, so she assumed he was going for a postgraduate degree. “How can I help?”

“Come out with me and teach me all there is to know about your city.”

Her heart thudded. He wasn’t here asking for directions, or to buy something to satisfy a sweet tooth. “You want me to...”

“Yes, Claire. I want you to go out with me. Tonight. Now.”

She blinked, wondering if that was an invitation, a request or a command. It sounded like all three.

Surprisingly, she hadn’t immediately said no. In fact, a hearty
yes
had tried to leap to her lips, but she’d swallowed the word, knowing she shouldn’t get any more involved with this man.

“I’ve got to close the shop.”

“It’s past closing time,” he pointed out.

So it was. She hadn’t even noticed. Nor, it appeared, had Jeannie, who was busy chatting up Philip’s buddy, who sat at a small café table, his hands curled around a cup of hot coffee.

“I have work to do in the kitchen, orders for tomorrow.”

“How long will that take?”

She thought about it. Mrs. West had been working this afternoon and had taken care of the basics. But there were some specialty jobs she didn’t trust to anybody but herself. “Probably a couple of hours.”

“Very well. Shall we say half past eight?”

A little over two hours from now. Yes, she supposed that was possible. She also supposed it was possible she could get up extra early tomorrow and do the orders. Which would leave her time now to shower, shave her legs, fix her hair, do her makeup, find something fabulous to wear, and talk herself into actually going through with it.

Oh, hell, who was she kidding? Her inner voice—the part of her that didn’t always want to be careful and responsible and protective—had already decided.

For once, she wasn’t going to be the sensible, always-thinking-of-everyone-else Claire. She was going to think of herself, to do something she
wanted
to do for a change, rather than what she was supposed to do.

She was going to go out with Mr. Dark and Dangerous.

4

“A
RE
YOU
SURE
SHE
’
S
the one?” asked Shelby a short time later, while Philip got ready. “She’s so tall, and unfeminine.”

Philip pierced his cousin with a hot glare. “Her strength is part of what makes her so lovely, and she’s incredibly feminine in every way that really matters.”

He’d known plenty of ultrafeminine—read: helpless—females. Princesses, duchesses, rich merchants’ daughters...in his world, they were very much the same. All waited for a man to take care of them. None would risk breaking a nail to fix her own meal, much less spend hours on her feet preparing sweet and pretty treats that customers oohed and aahed over as they left the shop.

Claire’s independence fascinated him. Her beauty attracted him. Her wit amused him, her work ethic impressed him and her intelligence challenged him. She filled his thoughts, day and night. Oh, yes. He was sure she was the one.

“All right, then,” his cousin said with an exaggerated sigh, throwing himself down on the sagging couch. “It’s
your
funeral.” Shelby and Teeny made for interesting roommates—he could sometimes hear them bickering through the walls.

Philip just smiled to himself.

At eight-thirty, he walked downstairs to Claire’s apartment. The hallway was much brighter than it had been. He’d had Teeny purchase lightbulbs, and had personally installed them, not liking her having to move through the shadows.

Philip knocked once, waited, and knocked again. Then he heard a voice calling along the hall.

“Sorry, I’m here. I wanted to finish up a few things.”

Claire was waving to him from the doorway to the sweet shop. He walked toward her, noting the changes in her appearance from when he’d left her a few hours ago.

Though her hair was held back by a clip at one side, she’d left it down, and his hands reflexively tightened at his sides. In the low lighting the other night, he hadn’t noticed the hints of copper in the sea of brown curls. The rich swirl of colors brought to mind the decadent caramel chocolates she sold in her shop, and he immediately decided that was his favorite color.

Then she smiled at him, her eyes twinkling, and he remembered blue-green was his favorite color.

Then he looked down and saw the sweater she wore—soft and crimson. Red.
That
was his favorite color.

“I’m ready,” she told him. “Just let me lock up.”

He waited while she turned to do so, unable to keep his attention from drifting down to the black pants she wore. They were some kind of velvety material—corduroy, he thought it was called—and clung to her curves as if they’d been painted on.

Oh, right. Black is my favorite color.

Hell, he might as well admit it.
She
was his favorite color.

His breath hissed between his teeth as he studied her pert backside, her womanly hips and the length of those incredible legs, which he could almost feel wrapped around his hips.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

He jerked his attention back to her face, realizing she’d caught him staring. Philip didn’t apologize—not because he wasn’t used to apologizing for anything, although he was seldom required to. But because he wasn’t at all sorry for looking.

She’d worn the clothes so he would look. She’d left her hair down for the same reason. She’d put shadow on her eyelids and shiny gloss on her lips and perfume on her wrists and throat, all to appeal to him. The mating rituals here were no different than in Elatyria. He knew when a woman was trying to appear attractive to a man. Philip didn’t tell her that she could still be wearing her apron, with chocolate smeared on her cheek and her hair in a ponytail, and he’d be every bit as attracted.

“Before we go,” he said, “there’s something I have to do.”

Unable to resist, he reached out and slid his hands into her hair, fingering those soft curls. He pulled her to him slowly, giving her every chance to stop him if she desired.

She didn’t stop him. So he covered her mouth with his, licking her lips, demanding she open for him. She did, with a sigh, and he swallowed the sound as his tongue thrust gently against hers. Heat rose, excitement flared, and a part of him wanted to suggest the only exploring they do that night was of her bed. But this whole exercise wasn’t about bedding a woman. It was about finding his mate—and convincing her that he was right for her, as well. So he regretfully ended the kiss.

He hadn’t intended to start the evening that way, but damned if he could say he regretted it. “I’ve been wanting to do that again since the night we met.”

“Truly?”

“Oh, yes.”

She hesitated, then spoke softly. “So why haven’t you?”

Damn. He knew she’d been wondering about that. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her beautiful face, answering honestly. “I had a few obligations to clear up, Claire, and couldn’t give you my full attention.”

“And now?”

“Now, you’ve got it. For as long as you want it.”

Maybe a lifetime, if his instincts were right. He’d thought she was the one from the moment they met. Every interaction since had convinced him more. Tonight might just confirm it.

She licked her lips, stalling, considering. He didn’t think she would respond with a coy rejoinder that perhaps she didn’t want it, or tease him that he’d waited too long. She’d never struck him as the kind of woman who played games.

“I’m glad.”

He was relieved, and pleased he knew her so well. “Shall we go?”

They left the building and walked in silence for a while, heading toward the bright lights of Times Square.

“What is it you’d like to see?” she eventually asked.

“Everything,” he admitted. “Show me what you love about your city. Explain to me why it’s beautiful despite being so dirty, why my heart pounds when I smell the strange scents, and why I smile when I see the crush of humanity gathered beneath all these impossibly tall buildings.”

She laughed. “You probably appreciate New York more than I do. I’ve lived here all my life, so it’s old hat.” Looking up at the lights dominating the skyline, she admitted, “I like seeing it fresh, through your eyes.”

So they showed the city to each other. For the next two hours, they explored the “Big Apple,” though he didn’t know why she called it that. They walked up Broadway and saw the theater marquees competing for space with the kitschy tourist shops. They were encouraged to try free samples, to come in and check out prices, to accept coupons for “no cover” in clubs from pushy barkers.

One of them got too aggressive with Claire, blocking her path and then putting a hand on her arm. Seeing red, Philip reacted instinctively. He shoved his way between them, taking the man’s wrist in one hand and his shoulder in the other, and propelled him out onto the street.

After that, Philip kept his hand on the small of her back as they maneuvered through the crowd, ever so aware of the warmth of her body beneath her coat. He was also aware of every laugh, every smile, of the way her eyes gleamed as she gazed up at the big, brightly decorated tree in front of Rockefeller Center.

They talked about nothing of importance, but he couldn’t remember ever laughing more. Claire was caustic and a little outrageous, but also smart, warm and charming.

He found himself telling her about his own background—as much as he could without revealing he was a prince from another dimension. Somehow, though, families were the same in every world, and in every income bracket, and he soon had her laughing when he described the way his mother ruled the house—and kingdom—while letting his father think he did.

There was only one thing on which they disagreed. Fascinated by a store called Hershey’s, which was, apparently, filled with nothing but chocolate, Philip reluctantly let Claire tug him away.

“I’ve got plenty of candy at home for you to try,” she said.

Damn. Did she do that on purpose? Did she know that when she said “candy,’’ he was thinking about her sweet lips and creamy skin?

A flush appeared in her cheeks. Yes. She knew.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“You can’t apologize for being delicious.”

She stopped midstride, and someone walking behind her almost crashed into her.

“Hey, watch it, dumb-ass!”

Philip swung around, fire in his eyes. The young man who’d spoken flinched, mumbled an apology and moved around them.

But their easy laughter and casual conversation faded away. The awareness that had existed from that first moment in the back of her candy shop returned full force, a tangible thing between them. Claire was quiet, wouldn’t meet his eye, and he sighed deeply.

Finally, she confirmed she’d had enough. “We should probably get back,” she told him. “It’s getting late.”

“Very well.”

They walked in silence again. Eventually, Philip cleared his throat. “I apologize for making you feel uncomfortable.”

Instead of acknowledging that, she actually giggled. “So you
are
capable of apologizing! I figured you just always offered, but never actually did it.”

He joined in her laughter because, yes, that had happened a few times since they’d met.

By the time they reached their building, they’d fallen back into casual conversation. Light, friendly, absolutely nothing about candy or deliciousness or how very much he wanted to touch her. Philip knew he’d pushed too hard, and she’d stepped back. He didn’t want to make that mistake again.

Walking her to her door, he fully expected her to say good-night. But to his surprise, she said something else instead.

“I believe I owe you some chocolate...since I wouldn’t let you go in and buy any from that other store.”

She’d obviously added that last part to make sure he didn’t mistake her words for any kind of innuendo. “Yes, you do.”

“Do you like brownies?”

“I’m not sure.”

She gasped. “You’ve never had brownies?”

“I don’t think so,” he admitted.

“Oh, buddy, have I got a treat for you. Come on, I made a batch earlier...and I happen to have vanilla ice cream. A little melted Godiva and we are
so
on for hot fudge brownie sundaes!”

“Godiva... Is that what you were melting the night we met?”

“Uh-huh.”

He grinned. “We are
so
on for hot fudge brownie sundaes.”

* * *

S
HE
SHOULD
HAVE
SAID
good-night.

The smart thing to do—the sane thing, considering she had no time for a relationship with anyone, much less a guy who made her forget she had a brain cell in her head—would have been to shake Philip’s hand and walk away.

Instead, Claire found herself in the kitchen making sundaes with a man.

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he said as he leaned over to sniff the pot on the big, industrial stove, in which she was whipping up a special hot fudge topping. “I could swim in a pool of that and never come out.”

Mmm. A pool of dark, decadent chocolate and this dark, decadent man. Sounded like a delicious combination to her.

“Almost ready.” She continued to stir the hot fudge. “Will you please grab the ice cream from the walk-in freezer?”

He glanced around, one eyebrow lifted as if he didn’t know what a walk-in freezer looked like. She had never realized how different Spain must be from the United States. She nodded toward the freezer, and he went in, returning a moment later with the large, unopened container.

“Let’s let it soften up a little, okay? By the time it’s soft enough to scoop, the fudge sauce will have cooled off just a bit and we’ll be able to eat it.”

“You’re very knowledgeable about this,” he said.

“It’s my job,” she answered with a shrug.

“How did you get started in this career?”

“I’ve always loved baking and candy-making. My grandmother was a fantastic cook and I used to work with her in the kitchen all the time. She started me on her famous chocolate-dipped peanut brittle when I was eight, and I never looked back.”

Claire walked over to the counter and settled on a stool. He sat opposite her, dropping his elbows onto the surface and clasping his hands together. Such big hands, strong and powerful. She still couldn’t get over how easily he’d handled that obnoxious barker, how he’d lifted the burly man off his toes as he’d thrust him out of the way. Philip might not be the brawny enforcer she’d first imagined him to be, but he was strong.

“Did your grandmother help you start this shop?”

“She passed away years ago. Before my parents did.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes. It’s just me and Freddy now.”

Philip’s expression hardened. “I take it your brother’s not much help.”

“He’ll grow up one of these days.”

“So, you did all this by yourself?” Philip asked, looking around the immaculate, state-of-the-art kitchen.

“With the help of some contractors and workmen, yes, I did.”

“Impressive.” Admiration shone on his face.

“What do you think of my city now?” she inquired, changing the subject.

“Also impressive.”

“What’s
most
impressive? The crowds, the pickpockets, the rotten garbage, the honking taxis, the screaming drivers or the clueless tourists?” All of which they’d seen during their two-hour track through the touristy Broadway district. All of which she’d enjoyed, as crazy as it was. It was home to her, but usually turned other people off.

Philip hadn’t seemed the least bit bothered by any of it.

“Are those attributes?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

“Definitely.”

“Then no wonder this city has captivated me,” he said, sounding as if he meant it. “I love the seediness of it.”

“If you like seediness, you must get to New Orleans.”

“Very well. When should we go?”

Grinning, she played along. “Three Christmases from now?”

“It’s a date.”

“Do you really think you’ll be around then?” she murmured, pretending she wasn’t terribly interested in his answer.